


This, Your Swift Destruction

by BroadwayStarletQueen



Series: Soul Set in Darkness Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayStarletQueen/pseuds/BroadwayStarletQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You must know,” Mycroft said darkly, “that if you choose to cross me, John Watson, you will lose.  Every time.”</p><p>John clenched his fists under the table and chose his words carefully.  He leaned over the table, leveling his gaze with Mycroft’s, and said, “Right, then.  Looks like it’ll be war between us.”</p><p>“Then we’re agreed.  The first couple to the altar wins.”<br/>- - - - -<br/>An epilogue to Loved the Stars Too Fondly</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dearies! I thought that Loved the Stars ended where it needed to, but after all the scary sad stuff that happened in the first two stories, I wanted a happy ending. A big, fluffy ending.
> 
> So here it is, in true Mycroft vs. John fashion, a battle for the best proposal.

John stared at the chessboard in front of him, feeling utterly defeated. He scrutinized all the pieces, wracking his brains for possible moves that Sherlock had taught him, but nothing came to him.  Roundly defeated, he pushed the board across the table and sighed.  “You win.  Again. Don’t know why I bothered suggesting chess in the first place.”

 

“The effort is appreciated,” Mycroft said.  He acknowledged his third won game of chess with a small nod and started to put the pieces back in the game’s box.  “You put up a good fight.”

 

“Sherlock must have been holding out on me.  He swore he told me all the moves that stumped you.  Maybe I’m just off today,” John replied.  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead a bit too roughly to be conducive to relieving tension.

 

Mycroft, of course, noticed.  “Long day at the surgery?”

 

“Stressful one. Stressful _week_ , it’s just…” John sighed again, unsure of exactly how to put it. He’d grown used to opening up to Mycroft over the past two years back home.  As soon as he and Sherlock had returned from New Orleans, Mycroft’s support had been vital in the first few months when the public wasn’t sure if they were ready to trust Sherlock Holmes again.  John had found himself visiting Mycroft about once a month.

 

He _never_ thought he would be in Mycroft’s presence just to…hang out.  _Chill_ , or whatever it was.  But it actually wasn’t bad.  Mycroft, once you got him out of his smug self, was actually very sensitive and what you could almost classify as sweet.  And he was desperate for John’s advice on every single aspect of relationships. Apparently he thought John was an expert on Things Greg Likes, even though he could employ every security camera in the country to figure it out himself.

 

John decided it couldn’t hurt to tell him.  “Sherlock and I have been together for almost four years.”

 

“I’m quite aware of that.”

 

“Yeah, and…well, what with the new laws being passed and everything, I thought it might be time to…y’know, pop the question.”  John winced at his own words.  “Stupid idea, isn’t it? Sherlock’s not really the marrying type. I don’t think either of us really are. I just…I dunno, I want this. With him.  But I don’t have a clue how to go about it. What do you think?”

 

He studied Mycroft’s face, looking for some confirmation, but all he got was a rather unattractive grimace.

 

“What? It’s not _that_ bad, is it?”

 

“No,” Mycroft replied. “Not at all.  It’s an excellent idea.  Mummy and Daddy will be pleased.”

 

“So why are you angry? You’re not really going to pull the possessive big brother stuff on me now, are you?”

 

Mycroft considered what to say.  “Greg and I have been together for a while now, as well.”

 

“Er, I suppose,” John said.  “So?”

 

“So. I was thinking of doing the same in the next week.  ‘Popping the question,’ as you put it,” Mycroft repeated with distaste is his tone. “I’d been planning on it for quite a while, actually.”

 

“Well, that’s…good. Good for you two.” John wasn’t sure what to say, so he leaned over and awkwardly patted Mycroft on the arm in congratulations.

 

“So of course you recognize the problem,” he said matter-of-factly.

 

“Not really. Two couples in love getting engaged seems like the opposite of a problem to me.”

 

Mycroft eyed him in a way that made him feel like he had the intelligence of a toddler. “Two couples getting engaged at the same time…two _related_ couples. The first couple to get engaged will be deemed the original couple, and the second couple will be…copycats.”

 

“Wow…I can’t believe you just said the word ‘copycats.’  Besides, that’s not true at all.  We’re both, y’know, in love.  People won’t think any of us are copying each other.”

 

The two men sat in silence across the small table.  A clock on the other end of the room seemed to tick louder every second.

 

“I have to propose first.  Sherlock and I have been together longer.”

 

“I’ve been planning this longer.  I have reservations.”

 

“Bull shit—you never have reservations anywhere.  You call them and tell them you’re coming and they _have_ to accommodate you.”

 

“You don’t even have the faintest idea when or how you’ll propose to my brother. You need months to prepare. I’m ready _now_.”

 

“I’m not going to be a _copycat_ ,” John said tensely. “Not after everything Sherlock and I have been through.”

 

The two men narrowed their eyes at each other.

 

“So, what?” John asked. “I have to beat you to a proposal? It’s a battle of the romances?”

 

“You must know,” Mycroft said darkly, “that if you choose to cross me, John Watson, you will lose. Every time.”

 

John clenched his fists under the table and chose his words carefully.  He leaned over the table, leveling his gaze with Mycroft’s, and said, “Right, then.  Looks like it’ll be war between us.”

 

“Then we’re agreed.  The first couple to the altar wins.”


	2. The Battle

“Stop it,” Sherlock said without lifting his head.  He was too busy studying the book in his lap—some study on hallucinations connected with paint thinners.

 

John bobbed his head up from looking at the paper, confused. “Stop what?”

 

“Thinking so loud,” Sherlock said.  “It’s extremely distracting.  Just put the kettle on, and whatever it is will come to you.”

 

He opened his mouth to argue, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to make some tea.  He folded his paper and set it on his chair and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

 

It was a relief to be back in 221b, a relief that John still didn’t take for granted after years of being back in London.  It was Mycroft’s doing, surely, that everything had been in place and the flat had never been occupied by another tenant, and for that John was grateful.  But he could hardly stand to feel gratitude toward Mycroft when they were in the middle of a war.

 

Sherlock groaned from his chair.  “You’re still _thinking_ too loud. You’ve been tense since you got back from Mycroft’s. Did he say something?”

 

“Sort of.  We’re kind of having a row.”

 

“A row?”  Sherlock abandoned his book, intrigued, and met him in the kitchen.  “With Mycroft?  What kind of a row?”

 

“None of your business,” John grumbled.  “Have you eaten yet?”

 

“Was it something about me?  Of course it was, there’s nothing else it could be,” Sherlock deduced. He wrapped his arms around John’s middle from behind and buried his nose in the crease between John’s neck and shoulder. “ _Tell_ me.”

 

“Can’t you just figure it out?”

 

“You’ve gotten better at hiding things from me.”  Sherlock considered his options, and then asked, “Is it about our anniversary?”

 

“I thought you’d deleted that.”  


“Am I wrong?”

 

John sighed.  “It’s not about _you_ , per se. I can’t really tell you.”

 

Sherlock released him with a huff.  “Dull.”

 

“Go back to your reading.  I’ll bring you a cuppa.”  John watched him leave, releasing the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Sherlock was in a stroppy mood, now, shoving his book onto his lap fitfully and flipping through it with occasional eye rolls in John’s direction.

 

“Sherlock…” John began.  “Would you…erm, would you happen to know where Mycroft would take Greg for a special occasion? Somewhere they both like?”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “Is this supposed to be a clue?”

 

“If you like.  Do you have an answer?”

 

“Berners Tavern—very impressive, very expensive, a favorite of Mycroft’s. Not of Greg’s, but Mycroft doesn’t know that.”

 

“Brilliant. _Brilliant_. You’re amazing,” John said with a grin, rushing over to kiss Sherlock.  “I owe you one.”

 

He pulled out his mobile and started typing away, finding the number quickly and running to his room to make the call.

 

After three rings, he was put through.  “Berners Tavern, how can I help you?”

 

“Yes—I’m here to inquire after a reservation for the end of this week. I’m not sure what day it is, but it should be under Mycroft Holmes?”

 

“One moment, sir.” 

 

He waited for a response, nervously tapping his fingers against his bedroom wall.  This could potentially go very, very badly.

 

“There is a reservation under that name, sir—for Friday night. Are you changing the reservation, sir?”

 

“Yes,” John said with a smirk.  “You see, my name is Doctor John Watson, and I’m the doctor of Mycroft Holmes. He’s just been admitted to the hospital under my care—he’s come down with a rare strain of, erm, avian flu. We’re keeping him in isolation.”

 

“Oh!” the woman on the other end squeaked.  “Are you cancelling on his behalf?”

 

“I’m afraid I have to.  He cannot leave his room. He’s highly contagious, and I’m afraid he’s been drifting in and out of hallucinations.  If he calls…”

 

“I understand.  Thank you, Dr. Watson, sir.”

 

John hung up, feeling highly victorious, and opened the door. Sherlock was waiting outside, arms crossed.

 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, we _talked_ about eavesdropping,” John said.  “It’s ruined the past four Christmases…”

 

“You’re sabotaging my brother,” Sherlock said.  “Why?”

 

“None of your business.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing John closely, and opened his mouth to speak—and John’s mobile cut him off.

 

It began to ring and John checked the caller ID.  “It’s Mycroft,” he said needlessly, and he shut the door in Sherlock’s face.

 

“Hello, Mycroft,” he said into the phone.  “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

 

“How _dare_ you!” Mycroft hissed back. “How—how _dare_ you, pretending to be my doctor—”

 

“You have to admit it was clever.  I’m surprised you found out so quickly.  It’s only been about a minute since they cancelled on you.” John chuckled darkly and said, “You _said_ this was war.”

 

“You have no idea what you’ve started.”

 

“I think I do.  First one to the altar wins, you said,” John reminded him, “and I’m not stupid enough to make a reservation at a fancy restaurant.  Besides, I hear Greg doesn’t even like Berners Tavern.”

 

Mycroft was silent on the other end.  “Very well, Dr. Watson.  You’ve made your bed. Now, you lie in it.”

 

“Do your worst.”

* * *

 

It was unfortunate for Mycroft that John had already picked up the ring he was going to use, because that would have been a coup. At least _he_ already had a ring ready, as well, so there would be no battle on jewelry.

 

It was also unfortunate (though Mycroft would _never_ admit it) that Greg had moved in with him, because it was unbelievably difficult to plot and scheme with him around. Greg was proving a distraction, ironically enough.

 

“C’mon, Myc,” Greg murmured from the bed.  “Finish plotting your wars and policy changes and come to bed.”

 

Mycroft flexed his steepled hands from his desk and looked at his sleep-rumpled boyfriend.  He marveled daily at the fact that he’d ever found someone he loved so terrifyingly much, and that someone loved him back.  He marveled even more at the fact that he’d known Greg for years before ever seeing him as someone he’d be attracted to.

 

Greg, hair ruffled from rolling around in his sleep, smiled drowsily at Mycroft. “You’ve not moved for hours. Something bothering you?”

 

Mycroft glanced down at the papers he’d been scribbling on, filled with ways to beat John at this ridiculous game and sighed.  He left his desk, thankful that Greg had made him change into pyjamas before starting his nighttime plotting, and joined his boyfriend under the covers, placing a chaste kiss on Greg’s forehead. “Would it be useless to deny it?”

 

“Pretty much.”  Greg rolled over and kissed Mycroft a lot less chastely and grinned when he pulled away. Mycroft had to contain his fluttering heartbeat, which still refused after all these years to settle down when Greg got close.  “What is it, then? Maybe I can help.”

 

“John is getting on my last nerve.”

 

“Not Sherlock for once, is it?  Strange. Why’s that?”

 

“We have…a bet going on.  A bet that I am currently losing.”

 

Greg grinned.  “I can’t imagine a bet with John against _you_ that you’d be losing.  C’mon, then, what kind of bet is it?”

 

“Can’t tell.  State secret.”

 

“Can’t tell, eh?”  Greg started to kiss a long line down Mycroft’s throat.  “I thought you were supposed to trust me with _all_ your secrets.”

 

Mycroft groaned and relented a bit.  “He cancelled reservations to Berners Tavern this weekend for us.”

 

“Can’t say I blame him—I don’t like that place much.”

 

Mycroft angrily conceded that victory to John.  Perhaps the cancellation was a blessing in disguise. “John never makes reservations anywhere. I can’t possibly get back at him that way.”

 

“You’re probably right,” Greg said.  “He only ever gets takeaway.  Or he goes to Angelo’s.”

 

“Angelo’s, you say?”

 

“Isn’t that the first place he and Sherlock had dinner together? Angelo gives them anything they want, on the house.  Hasn’t he told you?”

 

“He has.  I just haven’t been thinking enough.” Mycroft kissed Greg soundly on the mouth, eyes bright with excitement, and said,  “You—are— _brilliant_. Don’t know how I’d scheme without you.”

 

He all but jumped out of bed, leaving a very disappointed Greg in his wake. “Oi—we hadn’t even gotten started!”

 

“Later, Greg.  The future of the country depends on this.”

 

“Depends on the rivalry between you and your brother’s boyfriend?” Greg asked pointedly.

 

Mycroft considered the question before picking up his phone. “Yes.”

* * *

 

“You unrepentant _prick_ ,” John hissed when he entered Mycroft’s office.  “I know you had something to do with this.”

 

Mycroft glanced innocently at John over his laptop’s edging and continued typing away.  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Angelo is _gone_. The restaurant—the place Sherlock and I first had dinner together—is closed until further notice!” John slammed both fists down on Mycroft’s desk and glared at him.  “Please tell me you didn’t kill the man.”

 

Mycroft smiled.  “Angelo happened to come into some money from a long-lost uncle and was encouraged to take a long vacation.  In French Polynesia.”

 

“You’re an evil man.  This isn’t the end, you know.  I have other options.”

 

“You’re not a very _creative_ man. If you want to play this game, you’re going to have to do much better.  Good day, Dr. Watson.

* * *

 

 _Two days later_ :

 

“Really, John?  Is that the best you can do?”

 

“Oh, hullo, Mycroft.  Don’t know what you mean.  You can’t possibly be referring to the fact that Greg cancelled on you to work on a case with Sherlock. It’s not like you’d really choose to propose to him at a _football match_.”

 

“I had box seats to the match between Cardiff and Swansea. Greg _likes_ football.  And we would have spent a romantic weekend there afterward.”

 

“It’s your own fault for thinking you could spend a romantic weekend in Cardiff.”

* * *

 

  _Three days later:_

“That’s just not fair, Mycroft.  Don’t take it out on Sherlock.”

 

“So a few security problems are keeping Sherlock from all the current murder cases at Scotland Yard.  What’s it to do with me?”

 

“He’s in a strop.  I hope you’re happy.”

 

“Incandescently. I’d heard a rumor you were going to put the ring in one of the cadavers.”

 

“That’s disgusting!  Though—it’s not exactly something Sherlock wouldn’t enjoy…”

 

“Too late.  There have been a few new security measures added to Bart’s morgue.  Sherlock won’t be allowed there for weeks.”

 

“I hate you.”

* * *

 

_A week later:_

“For goodness’ sake—is this your idea of retaliation?”

 

“What are you talking about?  I was just about to call _you_.”

 

“Why? Isn’t this your doing?”

 

“Do you think I have the means to send both of our boyfriends out of the country!?  _You’re_ the leader of the British government. If anyone could send them both away, I thought it would be you!”

 

“Well, apparently both of our proposal plans will be unsuccessful this weekend, seeing as our future fiancés are investigating a drug cartel in Spain without us.”

 

“Brilliant. Do you think maybe we should just call this off?”

 

“Is this your way of surrendering?”

 

“Not a chance.  Forget I said anything.”


	3. The Victory

John Watson had made the decision to ask Sherlock Holmes to marry him without pretense or romance.  Granted, it was not what he would have liked to do for Sherlock.  He would have much preferred something sweet and traditional to show his competence as a boyfriend/fiancé, but time was of the essence now.  He was embroiled in a war with Mycroft Holmes, and he figured Sherlock would appreciate his simple proposal, especially if he mentioned that saying yes meant beating his brother at a proposal game.

 

John planned to ask in person, as soon as Sherlock came back from Spain.  All he would do was ask.  ‘ _Hey, you’re home.  Marry me?_ ’  That would be it.

 

The flight landed while he was working, but he still texted.

 

_Glad you’re back.  Meet me at home in an hour?  JW_

_Can’t.  Got wind of a case involving a serial killer making rounds at schools.  I’m seeing to it before Lestrade botches it up.  Don’t wait up.  SH_

 

John flinched, feeling his plan fall to pieces.

 

_Anything I could help with?  JW_

 

_Don’t see why not.  Meet me at 780 Gloucester Avenue, and prepare for a stake-out.  SH_

 

_Can I meet you at 221b first?  JW_

 

_No time.  SH_

 

_Sorry.  SH_

 

He groaned and threw his phone back on his desk, changing back to street clothes in his office in a huff.  Time was running out, but he didn’t want to ask Sherlock to marry him during an investigation.  His mind would be on the case, not on their relationship.  It was all terribly ill-timed.

 

In a moment of weakness, John made up his mind and grabbed his phone again, texting before he could even think what he was saying.

 

_You’re making this impossible.  JW_

_I love you, you madman.  Let’s just get married.  JW_

After he sent it, he immediately regretted it.  The tiny blue screen showed the words he hadn’t really meant to sent, taunting him for being so single-minded in his pursuit of winning a stupid game that he’d actually proposed over text messaged.

 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock replied.

 

_No.  SH_

John’s heart stopped for a moment.

 

He stared at the screen, not believing what he’d seen, waiting for a follow-up.  Desperately he wished he could take back what he’d said, or ask what the hell Sherlock _meant_ , or pretend it had all been a joke.  But it hadn’t been, and John was deeply embarrassed and ashamed for it, because he’d just trivialized marriage with Sherlock and the response he’d gotten had been ‘no.’

 

 What kind of ‘no’ was it, anyway?  No, Sherlock didn’t want to marry him?  Of course he must want to—they’d discussed it before.  They were as good as married.  They were never going to leave each other—what was the point of saying no?  Did Sherlock just want to stay in the same relationship they’d been in for so long?  Could John live like that, knowing that he’d wanted to be legally bound to him before getting rejected.

 

Before he could reply, Sherlock texted again.

 

_780 Gloucester Avenue in two hours.  SH_

 

 He didn’t receive any more texts after that—or perhaps he did, but his phone didn’t show them.  He’d thrown it against the wall and completely shattered the screen.

* * *

 

Against his better judgment, John still went to meet him at the school, though not without considering over and over again if it was worth it.  He’d been going through everything in his mind on a loop, trying to figure out where they would go from here.

 

Sherlock had texted him, expecting him to meet up with him and help with a case, after refusing his offer of marriage.  That implied he wasn’t looking to break up, John supposed, but what did that leave for them?  Would they just be boyfriends until they died?

 

Mycroft would never let him hear the end of it.

 

 John could deal with that, with just being Sherlock’s companion, but he’d entertained the idea of being his husband for so long that he was devastatingly disappointed and embarrassed that his plan hadn’t worked.

 

It was a cool spring night, thankfully not wet or foggy, and the streets were mostly empty around this area.  John kept his arms crossed as he neared the school, spying Sherlock near the entrance.

 

He smiled when he saw him.  “Ah, John, there you are.  A few minutes late, but I can accommodate for that.”

 

“Right,” John said, unsure of how to respond.  Apparently they weren’t going to talk about it.  Maybe Sherlock had already deleted it—in fact, that would be preferable. “So…it’s a stake-out, then?  Who are we looking for?”

 

“Inside.  Come on, then, we don’t have much time.”  Without another word, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and tugged him inside, leading him down the darkened halls of the school.

 

John followed behind, utterly bewildered.  Sherlock was muttering to himself, seemingly trying to remember or deduce something about the building, and then John realized something.  “Sherlock, have I been here before?”

 

“Brilliant deduction, dear.  So you have,” Sherlock said.  He checked his phone for the time, smiled, and pulled John into the nearest empty room.  “We have four minutes and twenty-two seconds.  You’ll have to remember quickly.”

 

“Remember?” John asked.  “Remember what?  Four minutes until _what_?  Sherlock—”

 

 “Just think.  You’ve been here before.  We both have.”

 

 “I thought we were in the middle of a stake-out.”

 

“Oh—no, we’re not.  That was a lie.  I lied.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“I’ll explain later, just answer my question, John.  This schoolhouse—when was the last time you were here?”

 

 John grunted in frustration and gave up trying to make sense of the situation.  He looked around the room they were in, seeing only desks and chairs and nothing that jogged his memory.  He knew he had been here before, but it had been years ago, and he didn’t know what it had been for.

 

Then he noticed the large windows—more specifically, the view from the windows of this room that showed a hall on the other side of the school.  “I’ve seen this before…”

 

“You have.  Observe the windows.”

 

 John squinted at them for a minute and walked over to inspect them.  Finally he saw it.  “This panel of glass is newer than the others.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock agreed.  “How do you know?”

 

“Glass flows down when it’s old.   It ripples.  See?” John pointed to the older window-glass, showing where it had billowed at the bottom of the window frame.  “They must have installed this panel recently.”

 

“A few years ago,” Sherlock said.  “Replaced when the old panel had been broken by a single gunshot.  If you’ll look to the parallel window of the other hall, you’ll see another new panel of glass.”

 

John blinked in confusion and turned to Sherlock.  “A gunshot? … _My_ gunshot.  Oh, Sherlock…”

 

 “Years ago, you stood in this room and shot a man you’d never met because you thought a man you hardly knew was in danger.  That was when I knew, John Watson, that you were utterly perfect.  Perfect for _me_ ,” Sherlock said.  He stared down at his feet, looking a bit embarrassed, and John took a step closer, not believing a word he was hearing.

 

“You brought me back to the school where I shot the cabbie?”

 

“I brought you back to the first place you saved my life.  The first time of _many_ , I might add,” Sherlock said.  “John, I am not well-versed in the art of describing emotions, and I believe I never will be.  But you know—you must know, by now—that the feelings I have for you are embedded so deep that I hardly think I could ever stop feeling them.”

 

At that, Sherlock dropped down to one knee, and John started hyperventilating.  “Sherlock, are you seriously— _Sherlock_ , _are you doing what I think you’re doing?_ Because I swear, I will kill you—”

 

 “John Watson,” Sherlock began, ignoring him, “will you do me…the enormous honor…of being my husband?”

 

“Are you _fucking serious_?!” John hissed.  There Sherlock was, down on one knee, and he had something in his hand, something that had to be a ring box.  But he’d just said no over text…which, in hindsight, made a lot of sense.

 

"I know you’ve been meaning to do this for a while,” Sherlock said, “and I knew when you sent that text you were desperate, but that's not how we should go about an engagement.  Please, an answer would be helpful.”

 

“Yes!  Yes, of course!” He dropped down to his knees as well, unsure of whether or not he was pissed off or ecstatic that his brilliant boyfriend had figured him out.  Rather than decide on that, he kissed Sherlock soundly on the mouth and then all over his face, covering his temples and cheeks and jaw with giggling kisses.

 

Sherlock was chuckling with him underneath the onslaught, and in between kisses and laughter, he managed to check his phone.  “Exactly on time.  Just so.”

 

“On time?”

 

“Proposal complete by half six.”

 

“Why’s that important?”

 

Sherlock just shook his head and gestured for John’s hand, where he stuck the plain gold band.  “I presume my ring’s at home?”

 

“Right—it’s in the—”

 

“Cupboard in the bathroom, where you knew I wouldn’t look.  Indeed,” he said.  With a tug, he brought John back to his feet and pulled him into a long embrace, burying his nose in John’s shoulder and smiling.  “You are so wonderful.  Though I’m afraid you’ve lost your little game with Mycroft—or, better put, I won.”

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

“It didn’t take long for Lestrade and I to figure out what you two were up to, and we figured it’s a bit less romantic when your boyfriend proposes under the conditions of a competition.”

 

“You and Greg _knew_?” John asked.

 

“I’ll admit, he’s a lot more clever than I give him credit for.  We planned to propose at the exact same time on the same day, in different locations.  That way no one has to be the…how would Mycroft put it?  ‘Copycat.’ ”

 

John shook his head.  “Amazing.”

 

“You _always_ say that,” he reminded him, and then his phone rang.  With a wink to John, he picked up and said, “Hello, brother dear.  Congratulations.”

 

“Put John Watson on the phone.”

 

“Now, Mycroft, shouldn’t you be engaging in some vulgar post-engagement sex right about now?  It would be very rude to leave your fiancé waiting while you yell at mine.”

 

“Greg’s getting…supplies,” Mycroft admitted.  “Put him on.”

 

Sherlock handed the phone over to John, who took it gingerly and prepared for screaming.  “Evening, Mycroft.”

 

“Did you know about this?”

 

“Of course I didn’t.  We were too wrapped up in our own stupid game,” John said.  “Look, I know it must be disappointing, but you’re not _really_ unhappy right now.  You just feel ashamed that your brother outsmarted you.  Save yourself the trouble of revenge and just enjoy yourself—you’ve gotten engaged.”

 

There was a pause on the other end, and then a long, drawn-out sigh.  “You’re actually right for once, Dr. Watson.  I’ll do as you say.”

 

Sherlock smiled victoriously at John, who in turn smiled back and then said, “Let’s not have any more stupid competitions, yeah?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, John.  There’s always a race to the nursery…”

 

John hung up the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for enjoying that little fluff journey with me! I really felt the need to wrap up the angst of the first two stories with some fun. Happy reading!


End file.
